


Wrong Boy

by ceralynn



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, Top Crowley (Good Omens), honestly he can be packing whatever you want here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceralynn/pseuds/ceralynn
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley argue following the missing hell hound.





	Wrong Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly? I just wanted an excuse for anger!fucking in the Bentley.

"So all this time, you had the wrong boy?"

"_We_ had the wrong boy!" Crowley insists, emphasis lost on his partner.

"You had us tracking the wrong anti-Christ," he counters. "The anti-Christ you delivered! How the Hell could you muck things up so badly?"

"Don't act like I did this on purpose! Multiple babies got delivered, all the same time. Accidents happen!"

"Accidents that could cost us the world! Really, Crowley, you bring me in on this plan to influence him, and it's not even the right boy?"

"When I brought you in on this plan, I thought the boy was right. I thought we were doing the right thing!"

"Precisely what I get, putting my trust in a demon."

Crowley's nails tear into the skin of his palm for the tight clench of his fist. He wants to punch, not Aziraphale, but something. Wants to pound a hole in the driver's side window or tear out the upholstery, something, but he doesn't. What he does instead surprises him.

He kisses Aziraphale.

Well, 'kiss' is a very gentle word for it. Really, he launches himself across the Bentley and his mouth happens to crash against the angel's while his lips happen to be poised for kissing. And Aziraphale reciprocates because he's just as angry, just as stressed, just as humiliated by their failure and if this is the only silver lining he gets today, he's going to fucking take it.

The front seat of a Bentley is no place for what they both have in mind, and they both know it, so Crowley pulls away just long enough to shove his own seat back, horizontal. He grabs a handful of gold fabric and drags Aziraphale into another kiss, drags him into the backseat. Crowley lands there first and Aziraphale is on top of him, thick thighs and ass grounding his hips as Crowley reaches between them for the zipper of Aziraphale's pants.

It's not necessary. He could miracle their clothes away with a snap if he chose to, but he chooses this instead, and when the zipper proves too frustrating Crowley opts for simply tearing the fabric apart, the angel jumping back as he does.

"Crowley!"

"Like you're ever fuckin' wearing these again."

He isn't and that isn't the point but Crowley's hardly receptive to that in this state. He helps Crowley get the ruined fabric down his hips, shifting until they're off his body and forgotten on the floor. Crowley gets himself out of his own pants (much more gingerly, Aziraphale can't help but note) and his hands find the angel's hips, guiding him til the head of his cock lines up with Aziraphale's entrance, tugging him down until Aziraphale is full of him. A brief moment passes for them both to adjust before Crowley's hips snap to fuck up into him and Aziraphale keens in response, lets his head fall to the demon's shoulder. Crowley digs his nails into the angel's skin probably hard enough to draw blood, begs his mind to go blank.

It isn't fair.

It isn't fucking fair, not one part of it, because he never asked for this. Never asked to deliver the anti-Christ. Never asked to be a fucking demon in the first place. Never asked to be tasked with saving Earth from its own destruction, but here they are.

It isn't fair because Aziraphale is rubbish at this position and he should know this by now. He should know his own tendency to get lost in his own pleasure, to fuck himself on Crowley's cock with little regard to whether the proprietor of that dick is getting anything out of it, to do the bare minimum of work in any context.

But these are not romantic things to say, so Crowley keeps them to himself.

"Bad angle," he hisses, and feels a laugh against his ear.

"Speak for yourself."

Crowley doesn't, because speaking won't drive the point home and he's got something else in mind that might. He brings one hand up to Aziraphale's shoulder, shoves him back and uses the momentum to carry himself over until the angel's back slams into the floor of the Bentley, Crowley's cock slamming into him as he falls and Aziraphale's eyes go white around the irises.

"See what I mean?" Crowley leans down, nibbles the flesh of Aziraphale's neck between his words. "Bad angle."

The angel's legs tighten around his waist, desperate, insistent, and it's still not fucking fair because Heaven can't give him this. Heaven can't, and they both fucking know it, both have known it from their first time, both have known it over and over and over and Crowley realises he's sobbing against the angel's neck, prays Azirphale finds himself too lost in pleasure to notice.

It's not fair because he only wanted time with Aziraphale, more time, was it such a crime to ask?

The angel's muscles tighten exquisitely around him and with a few strangled sobs he pumps his orgasm into Aziraphale, falling boneless afterward.

Not a damn thing about this is fair, but Crowley wouldn't change a thing.

It's unclear how much time passes before Aziraphale begins to rouse him, gentle kisses to his cheek, softly uttered pet names. Crowley can make out words if he tries hard enough.

"We really ought to be going, Crowley. If not back home, at least somewhere."

"Five more minutes," he grumbles.

"I'd dearly love that," Aziraphale answers, an edge to the words. "But I'm afraid we've just made love in the parking lot of a children's party. I think humans get arrested for less."

Crowley doesn't argue. He takes a moment, a breath, and pulls out of Aziraphale, savoring the little gasp the angel gives in response. With a snap of his fingers, they're both perfectly presentable, all mess gone, every button accounted for. He's on the verge of pulling away before hands grab his lapels, before he's being dragged down into another kiss.

It's so different from the one that started this, gentler. Apologetic, he thinks, but brushes that thought away as projection. When he pulls away, he notes the awful smudge of the angel's grease paint mustache. Notes that he never noticed it before.

He presses one more kiss to Aziraphale's nose before he gets up proper, ambling to the driver's seat and setting the back of it upright, properly vertical. "So, wrong boy," he repeats, casts a glance over his shoulder to his angel. "Where do you reckon we go from here?"


End file.
